


this isn't the stain of a red wine

by karasunonolibero



Series: iwaoi horror week [1]
Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, Fantasy Violence, Implied Cannibalism, IwaOi Horror Week, M/M, Past Character Death, breath of the wild AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-25
Updated: 2019-10-25
Packaged: 2021-01-03 07:35:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,471
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21175763
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/karasunonolibero/pseuds/karasunonolibero
Summary: Oikawa was the pride of Rito Village, praised throughout the Tabantha region as the greatest archer of all the Rito. And Goddess, did he know it. Barely a day went by without admirers flocking to his side, or a crowd gathering at the Flight Range to watch him train, eager to see his miraculous feats with their own eyes. He was pretty and arrogant and self-centered.And he was Iwaizumi’s.And he died, a hundred years ago.~or, Iwaizumi returns to Hyrule Castle to finish his quest, but something in the kitchen stops him.





	this isn't the stain of a red wine

**Author's Note:**

> first stab at writing spookyish stuff! i'm hype!! i've had the idea of iwaoi in a breath of the wild au for some time now but since i don't have the patience to write a full fic, i figured i'd mess around with some of the prompts for [iwaoi horror week](https://iwaoi-horror-week.tumblr.com/). they'll be small vignettes in this universe, all connected but not in chronological order. er...enjoy!
> 
> for reference, in this universe oikawa is a birdlike creature that looks like [this](https://vignette.wikia.nocookie.net/zelda/images/0/0e/Revali_Artwork_%28Breath_of_the_Wild%29.png/revision/latest?cb=20170220194609).
> 
> **DAY 1: HE WHO MASTERS ALL**  
the shadow of a knife / a silver hook / **the rusted cleaver** / a single nail / a spool of thread / ten inches of wood / the last stake
> 
> (unbeta'ed r i p)

Iwaizumi hasn’t been here in a hundred years.

He doesn’t recall Hyrule Castle very well, he thinks to himself as he steps over the broken cobblestones that once made up the road. But he has a feeling that the crumbling turrets, rusty gates, and monsters haven’t always been here.

It’s taken months to gather the courage and strength to come here once again. After waking up in the cave with nothing but a voice in his head and his own name, he’d traveled to every corner of Hyrule, twice sometimes, searching for—well, everything. Who he was, who he’d been, what he was supposed to do, and what had happened.

The knowledge of what happened a hundred years ago, coupled with the duty of having the save the entirety of Hyrule from the chains of darkness, weighs heavily on his shoulders, and those memories had come with the steep price of guilt, but nothing hurts as much as the memory of one person in particular.

Oikawa.

From what little Iwaizumi has recalled, Oikawa was the pride of Rito Village, praised throughout the Tabantha region as the greatest archer of all the Rito. And Goddess, did he know it. Barely a day went by without admirers flocking to his side, or a crowd gathering at the Flight Range to watch him train, eager to see his miraculous feats with their own eyes. He was pretty and arrogant and self-centered.

And he was Iwaizumi’s.

And he died, a hundred years ago.

No, Iwaizumi doesn’t remember a lot of him, he thinks as he ducks into the ruins of the castle and breathes in the rotten air, but he remembers enough. Enough that the dreams have begun, and enough that every time Iwaizumi blinks for too long, he sees that face staring at him.

The destruction from a century ago ripped gaping holes in the stone walls, exposing the innards of the castle to the elements. Over the years, the red carpets faded, portraits sagged in their frames, doors hung precariously on their hinges. And most worryingly, the stones began to loosen. Iwaizumi has to be careful as he picks his way through the ruins. One wrong step, one moment of leaning against an unstable doorway, one flailing arm, could spell a slow death of suffocating under a pile of stone.

It’s silent. Deathly silent. Even his footsteps barely make any noise, his footfalls silenced by the soft, worn leather of his boots. If he squints, he can imagine these corridors being filled with activity. A servant dashing to fetch the prince, the rattle of pots and pans in the kitchen, maybe even the prince himself hastening from the library with a book in his hands.

The prince. Right. He’s here to save the prince, the one person who’s been fighting for a hundred years to hold the darkness back. This is for him, Iwaizumi reminds himself as he forces his breath to slow so he can listen for danger.

From somewhere else, another corridor nearby, comes the squeak of rusty door hinges.

Iwaizumi stills, the tenseness creeping up his back and settling in his shoulders. The back of his neck tingles with the feeling that someone—something—is watching him. He doesn’t dare breathe too loudly, forcing his chest to rise and fall as slowly as possible

He knew it was likely that monsters would have taken up residence in the rubble of the castle, but he’d been sort of hoping he wouldn’t encounter one so quickly.

So he picks his way through the ruins at a glacial pace, careful to muffle the shuffling of the arrows in his quiver and the bow strapped to his back. His sword hand is sticky with sweat, but he doesn’t dare adjust his grip and risk dropping the sword. And the whole time, he keeps listening.

A heavy footstep, in the corridor right in front of him.

It’s at that moment that his foot catches on a protruding floorboard, sending him sprawling.

He hears the questioning grumble of a monster, and then there’s a giant clawed foot right in front of his face.

The beast in front of him has a single horn twisting from the top of its head, a dragon-like snout, and leathery white skin mottled with dull grayish stripes. It roars at him, breath hot and putrid and teeth just inches from his face. Iwaizumi barely has time to back away and draw his sword. It lunges, swiping at him with claws the size of his forearm; Iwaizumi raises his shield just in time and grits his teeth at the grating noise its claws make against the metal. He shoves, hoping to throw the monster off-balance, but it’s just too heavy. So he stabs, sinking his blade into its thigh. An anguished howl rips from its throat, purple blood gushing from the wound, but it plucks the sword out—and tosses it out the window, leaving Iwaizumi with a dented shield and no weapon.

Iwaizumi scrambles to his feet and runs. The monster gives chase, stumbling after him and hissing the whole way. Iwaizumi’s heart is in his throat, beating with every panicked step he takes.

He’s no longer paying attention to where he is, which way he’s going. All he knows is that the monster is on his heels, hissing and snapping its jaws and threatening to catch up to him any moment now. He turns down corridors at random, just hoping to lose it long enough that it’ll give up. He jumpsand around an intersection to find a wooden door. He yanks it open and sends a prayer up to the goddess that the monster won’t be smart enough to know where he went.

The only light comes from a rectangular window set high in the wall, but it’s enough to illuminate the space. High ceiling, light glinting off metal.

The kitchen.

Iwaizumi shuts the door behind him and lights up a dozen candles so he can see. It’s as empty and abandoned as the rest of the castle, but left in an eerie tableau; pots and cutting boards lay scattered on the counters, utensils stained with patina and tarnish fill the sink, and a cookbook sits out, gathering a century’s worth of dust.

Curious, Iwaizumi blows the dust off the cover of the book to reveal deep blue leather. The title, burned into the cover, reads RECIPES FROM TABANTHA AND HEBRA. That’s familiar. Why is that familiar?

And then, with a roar in his ears like a thundering waterfall, he remembers.

_He’s with Oikawa, kneeling next to a cooking pot while Oikawa hums a tune and dices some radishes on the blankets next to him. A cookbook lies open in between them._

_“I can’t believe you actually bought a cookbook,” Iwaizumi grumbles. _

_“You complained last time!” Oikawa protests. “So of course I did.”_

_“So you admit you’re not the greatest at everything?”_

_“I never said I was.” Oikawa slides the vegetables into the pot with a huff. “Do you want seagull or crow?”_

_Iwaizumi frowns. “You eat other birds? Isn’t that some kind of cannibalism?”_

_“You eat other mammals,” is Oikawa’s retort as he grabs a raw drumstick and starts to slice that as well. _

_“Yeah, but we’re not really closely related to like, cows and sheep and pigs.”_

_Oikawa shrugs. “Crows and jays eat other birds. So we eat them. You humans will eat anything, though.”_

_That much was true, Iwaizumi could agree. While Oikawa busies himself with the preparation, Iwaizumi flips through the book, ignoring Oikawa’s squawks of protest. Most of the recipes are fairly standard—rice balls, risottos, soups, cakes. But then he notices something. _

_“Hey,” he says, laying the book flat. “There are some pages torn out.”_

_Oikawa freezes. The ingredients simmer away in the pot. “I tore them out,” he replies shortly. _

_“Why?”_

_Instead of answering, Oikawa pokes at the food with a wooden spoon. “I didn’t like them,” he says after a few minutes of sullen silence._

_“So you just get rid of everything you don’t like?”_

_“Yes. Don’t you?”_

_“Not all of us have that luxury, Shittykawa.”_

_“Rude, Iwa-chan!” Oikawa plucks a burnt bit of meat out of the pot and throws it at Iwaizumi.“You’d agree with me if you saw what it was.”_

Iwaizumi blinks, and he’s back in the derelict kitchen. Back in the present. What had Oikawa torn out? He opens the book, coughing as dust flies up in his face, and sweeps through the brittle pages. It was after the cakes, he remembers, after the cakes, so somewhere in the back…

His breath catches when he reads the words “Recipe for Rito Feet” at the top of the page, and that’s when he notices the cleaver sitting innocently next to the book, the blade a rusty red.


End file.
